


Exit Through the Thrift Shop

by fallonbird



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, street art/journalist au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:25:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3445364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallonbird/pseuds/fallonbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian is a journalist doing everything he can to uncover the identity of the anonymous street artist who keeps painting Chicago with ~*unpatriotic filth*~. Mickey is a prison guard just trying his best.  Oh, also he does street art in his spare time. You see where this is going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exit Through the Thrift Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. Okay. Here goes.  
> 1) I am ninety-nine percent sure the Chicago Telegraph does not exist. If it does, this is their fault because they should be easier to find on Google.  
> 2) Aside from being editor-in-chief of my high school's newspaper way back in '08 (hashtag humblebrag), I have no idea how newspapers run. I definitely have no idea how prisons run. Let's call any glaring mistakes creative liberty.  
> 3) The title is a play on the Banksy documentary 'Exit Through the Gift Shop' because O B V I O U S L Y.  
> 4) This is set in the future only because I wanted them a bit older (24 and 25 to be exact), but otherwise it's essentially present day. This isn't fucking science fiction. (Sorry HG Wells)  
> 5) There is some discussion of past violence and non-con, which ranges from army stuff to Terry stuff to Kenyatta stuff. If violence is at all a trigger for you, firstly, I am impressed you are in this fandom, and secondly, you may want to give this a miss? It's pretty vague and it's mostly past tense, but it's there.  
> 6) I've got the story all mapped out, but chapter numbers may change as I write.  
> 7) This is basically a prologue, so there's a really minimal amount of Ian/Mickey (and Mickey at all) but it'll hit you full force in the next chapter.  
> 8) I think this is self-evident, but in case it's not: Ian and Mandy are best friends. Mandy and Lip have their relationship. The only difference is that Ian never really got to know Mickey when they were teenagers. There isn't going to be some big reveal where they slept together when they were teens and shit went down or whatever-it just didn't happen.  
> And.. that's it, I think. Enjoy, I hope!

_Mark: I was drunk and angry and stupid._

_Marilyn: And blogging._

_Mark: And blogging._

_-The Social Network, 2010_

****  
  


                                                                      

**Excerpt from ‘Exit Through the Thrift Shop’, a human interest story written by Ian Gallagher and published in the Chicago Telegraph on May the Third, 2022:**

_The paint that Mickey Milkovich uses to color the city is the cheap kind. It’s runny and the cans leak all over the garage floor where he keeps them hidden, behind a gun cabinet and underneath a blue plastic sheet. The cement there looks like a Jackson Pollock, just a mess of bright and clashing colors, yellows and reds and greens. It isn’t how I had expected Chicago’s Banksy to keep his supplies, but then nothing about him is what I had expected._

 

  Ian was certain that someone was deliberately baiting him. It was almost ridiculous in its specificity; a pointed jab if he ever saw one. Painted thirteen feet high on the side of his apartment building, a giant disembodied hand playing a redheaded soldier like a marionette puppet. The soldier was faceless, his hair and uniform being his only distinguishing features, but Ian recognized himself in it anyway.

 "It's just some punk trying to be edgy. Probably the same asshole who sprayed those coked out business men by the town hall." Lip was reassuring him over the phone. Ian remembered the graffiti he was talking about; a day or two after a Chicago judge had ruled a prominent (and clearly guilty) businessman innocent of dealing coke, the life-size graffitied likeness had shown up on the walls of a nearby alley. The _Telegraph_ had covered it for two days. "You don't need to worry about it, man."

"I'm not _worried_ about it," Ian grumbled, unlocking his front door and slamming it shut behind him. "I'm pissed off. This asshole has no idea what my fucking life has been like. And now my ethics are being questioned? Fuck this guy, seriously." Ian had been covering the military beat for the _Chicago Telegraph_  since he was honorably discharged from the army at only 21. The job had been a perfect transition. He had more sources than the newspaper could even accommodate, and he was allowed to work out of an apartment in the city as long as he showed up to meetings on time. He had never faced a shortage of stories to write about, and the feedback he received had been overwhelmingly positive, despite a few homophobic pricks here and there.

 But Ian knew what that graffiti on his building implied. "It might not even be about you, it might just be a critique on the Army in general," Lip was saying, sounding a little agitated, as if Ian was being _at all_ over-dramatic.

 "Oh, bullshit. This is about me and you know it, Lip. In what world do you give red hair to soldier who's supposed to represent an entire army? And it's on the side of _my_ building." Ian heard Lip take a deep sigh. 

 "Just don't do anything stupid, alright? I've got to go."

 "Yeah, yeah. Later." Ian tossed his phone on the couch and stretched, groaning a bit. Lip could argue devil’s advocate all day, Ian knew exactly what this was about, and it ticked him off. He sat down at his desk and jostled his computer mouse, waking up his trusty desktop that the Telegraph had given him when they'd hired him on. It wasn't the newest or flashiest model, but it was Ian's own, which still felt strange to him, seven years after getting out of Canaryville. There were post-its all over the screen left from researching old stories, and Ian pulled them off, stuffing them in a drawer before opening up his tumblr page.

 He was secretly very proud of his blog. It was a place where he wrote about things that he wasn't going to get published in the paper, and it allowed him to be much more candid than in his fact-based military reporting. At first it was a means to an end. So he could say what he really wanted to say about a story without compromising his journalistic integrity. When he started gaining followers though, locals who were interested in more than what the papers were giving them, he started writing about more than just the military and the war. He wrote about poverty and homelessness. He wrote about corruption in politics. He wrote about where to find the best pizza in Chicago.

His bosses weren't thrilled about the blog at first, but when it started drawing younger readers to the _Telegraph_ , they abandoned their reservations and even began to let Ian include the web address at the bottom of all his articles.

It began to gain some national attention after a post he made about his bipolar disorder went viral, earning him supporters from conservative pundits to liberal bloggers.

 Which is all to say, Ian had yet to receive much push back as a journalist, and this graffiti-ed criticism was bothering him. It had been on his mind for hours, since that morning when he had first noticed it. Apparently the city was going to send some cleaners out to get rid of it, but since there were still spray painted 'fuck's and 'fag's on the walls of the elementary school across the street, he wasn't holding his breath. So he had snapped a picture of the wall, sent it to everyone that he had in his speed dial, and waited. Lip had been the last to respond, calling just as Ian was headed home, but his take on it was no less infuriatingly uninterested than the others. Fiona had sympathized for about ten seconds before switching the subject to Jimmy's latest fuck up, Carl had texted back 'whoa. would you be pissed if I got that tattooed?', Mandy had sent him a snapchat of what looked like an unopened letter from her dad in prison with the line 'Um text me when you've got an actual problem please', which, okay, fair enough, but then Debbie had just sent him an angry face emoji, so.

So Ian hadn't gotten quite the reaction he'd desired. Fine. It wasn't as though he didn't have another outlet which through to vent.

                                                                      

**Text from 'Not a Puppet', a blog entry posted alongside a photograph of graffiti on Ian Gallagher's tumblr page on October the Eighteenth, 2021:**

_This is what I saw when I left my apartment this morning. An image of myself being controlled by some other person or agency- whatever the hand is meant to represent, it couldn't be further from the truth. My job is inform the public of military news as accurately and interestingly as possible, and I believe that I have performed that job in a completely unbiased way. I can only assume that the person or people responsible for this graffiti have a problem with my past in the United States Army. Let me be clear: I served this country to the best of my ability for three and a half years, and I am proud of the work I did there, but it has absolutely no impact on the angle of my reporting. I would go so far as to say that I have reported with even less bias than the average military reporter, because my time there taught me how important transparency in government is._

_So I would like to extend an invitation to the graffiti artist responsible. I want to invite you to come and meet me for an interview, so that I can report to the public how a human as judgmental and cowardly as you (I've received death threats from homophobic fourteen-year-olds with the balls to sign their names) can manage to survive in our society, and what it would take for us to rid our country of the likes of you._

                                                                

 He may have gone a little overboard. Okay, fine, Ian could admit that. He had a few beers in him, he was angry. However, the reaction his post received was just uncalled for. Some news blogs had picked up on the _Chicago Telegraph_ ’s senior military reporter going off on some anonymous street artist and by the time Ian awoke the next morning, he was in the middle of a national debate about patriotism, free speech, and ethics in journalism. They were calling it GraffitiGate.

 Ian had been at the _Telegraph_ offices all day, while people buzzed around him, trying to spin the story into the best possible light without alienating half of their readers. There was a PR team on retainer, but the owners of the paper went even farther and hired more people to come in and advise.  “It’s peace of mind, Mr. Gallagher. This is a big story and we’re at the center of it. If it gets bigger, we need to be prepared”.

 It got bigger. People online began linking the graffiti outside Ian’s apartment to other inflammatory works done around Chicago, including the cocaine-snorting businessmen. The style was nearly identical, and graffiti with any sort of deeper meaning or purpose was not exactly flooding the streets of Chicago. Unless you count the painting of a hot dog having sex with a hamburger on 104th street, which Ian totally did.

 At four pm, a call came in to the _Telegraph_ from the police station. There was a new piece of graffiti, painted in the same sharp style on top of the painting of the soldier. In red paint, all along the side of Ian’s apartment building, were the words “Ian Gallagher is a dead man”.

                                                              

 If there was any upside to this, any at all, it would be that his family finally started reacting to the graffiti. Like, really reacting to it. “I had to find out on the news, Ian, on the news!” Fiona screamed at him when she showed up at the Telegraph office where Ian had been sequestered all day. “Someone is threatening your life and you don’t think to call me?” She pounded her small fists on his chest and then pulled him into a tight hug. “You’re a piece of shit.” Ian laughed.

 “Sorry, phone's dead.”

 “I love you, you asshole.”

 “You too.” Ian leaned back on the edge of a desk while Fiona collapsed into the chair beside it.

 “How are you?” He shrugged. “Come on, Ian. You must be upset. I’d be terrified.”

 “I’m annoyed. I’m not afraid.” Fiona narrowed her eyes at him.

“Bullshit, Ian. This guy knows where you live.”

“Or girl, don’t be sexist, Fi,” Ian smirked, before receiving a slap. “Ow, sorry, okay. It’s… unnerving. But I was in the fucking army, okay? I grew up in the south side, I know how to handle myself against one punk with a can of spray paint.”

“Don’t worry, Fiona, I can make this argument for you,” a voice boomed from behind them. Tony Markovich.

 “Tony? What are you doing here?” Fiona asked, standing. Her voice had that ‘I don’t like this but I’m going to be cordial in case you can help me’ lilt to it.

 “Oh, come on,” Tony grinned, waving his hand at her like they were both in on some joke. When Ian and Fiona continued to stare, his smile dropped. “Oh, I thought- I got promoted. I’m a detective for this precinct now. I told you that, remember?”

“Oh, yeah! Totally slipped my mind,” Fiona smiled. Ian did his best not to laugh. Poor Tony Markovich, never stood a chance.

 “Anyway, I need to talk with Ian here. I volunteered for this case, figured you’d want someone you knew handling it.”

“Oh definitely,” Ian said while Fiona made vague noises of agreement. “Wouldn’t want anyone else.” Tony preened at the compliment, before gesturing for Ian to follow him into an office.

 “Follow me, soldier.”

                                                                

 Ian was surprised to find both the editor and two of the paper’s owners already seated when he got inside. Tony closed the door behind them and motioned for Ian to sit.

 “Ian, we’re concerned about your safety,” the editor, Mr. Opperman, said. Ian looked between his three bosses.

 “Because of some guy with a spray-can?”

 “Because you've been threatened by some guy with a spray-can, yes.” Ian scoffed and turned to Tony, hoping for solidarity. He found none.

 “I know you’re south side, Ian, but so am I,” Tony said, with his serious police face on. “We don’t know anything about the person making these threats. They could be violent. You need to be protected until we get this straightened out.” That pricked his ears.

 “Protected?” The room was silent until-

 “We’re putting you on paid leave for now,” one of the owners, Ian was pretty sure his name was Gary something, said.

 “Excuse me?”

 “And you need to find somewhere to live in the meantime,” Tony added.

 “What? This is insane!” Ian threw his hands up. “It’s just-”

 “This isn’t just about you, Ian,” Mr. Opperman said, forcefully enough to shut him up. “This is about the paper and everyone who works here. This may feel like just one person making threats against one other person, but this is playing out on the news, and if we’re not careful, this may spark something bigger. There are a lot of crazy people in this country, Mr. Gallagher.” Ian flinched. _There_ _are_ _a lot of crazy people in this country._ He’d heard that before. “And someone may attack these offices just to get to you if they think you’re here. We need the nation to know that you’re not.”

 “And, that’s not even to mention the point this… vandal is making about you.” Ian’s eyes snapped to meet that of the second owner, who had been silent up to this point.

 “What point is that?” Ian asked through gritted teeth.

 “Well, you are friends with a lot of people in the military. Can we really know, without a doubt, that your reporting is unbiased?”

“That’s bullshit!” Ian was standing now, shouting at them, hands clenched by his sides.

“We know, Ian,” Mr. Opperman stood to meet him at eye level and put his hands on Ian’s shoulders. “We know that. But for the millions of people who don’t know you, there’s reasonable doubt. So we've decided to hire someone to come in-”

“Oh, come on-”

“- _to come in_ , and prove that you are the man we hired. You’re a fantastic journalist with a unique voice. We’re going to keep you here as long as we can, but we just need you to take a break for now.” As if the words ‘take a break’ had triggered something in his brain, Ian was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. The last two days had been long, and tense, and he just wanted to sleep. He sat back into his chair, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Someone was rubbing his back.

“Fine. I don’t care. Call me when it’s done,” he mumbled before standing and walking out.

                                                                

Tony had gone with Ian to his apartment so he could pack his things before heading to Lip’s. Fiona didn't need him at home stressing her out, he’d decided, so he was going to crash on Lip’s couch for a few days until he could go back to work. “Of course you can, my brother!” Lip had said, jovial as ever, when Ian had called to ask. “I can help you hack your phone so you can do reverse look-ups on blocked numbers, it’ll be like we’re kids again.”

 But the minute Ian walked in the door, Lip was walking out of it. “So sorry, I've got to- just do whatever, make yourself at home.”

 “Wait, what? Where are you going?”

 “I've got to go meet up with someone, I’ll be back, I promise. You’ll be okay, right? I’ll stay if you need me, but I really. Like, I really have to go.” Ian groaned.

 “Whatever,” he flopped down onto the surprisingly comfortable couch. Lip’s engineering job must be paying well. “Go. Go have sex or sell drugs or whatever it is that’s more important than me.”

“Hey,” Lip’s voice went soft, and Ian felt his hand on his shoulder. Lip crouched down beside him and gently pushed at Ian so that he would look in Lip’s direction. “You are the most important thing, okay? The _most_. Do you want to know where I’m going?” Ian nodded, eyes closing. The warm presence of his brother was comforting. “Mandy called me. She’s moving to Indiana with that fucker Kenyatta.”

Ian sat up. “What? Why didn't she call me?”

“She tried, your phone is off or dead or something. She only called me because she was trying to find you, to say goodbye.”

“And you were, what, going to go help her pack up her car and then just… not tell me?”

“No, I was going to stop her. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to have another thing to deal with.” Ian pushed Lip back from the couch.

“Why, because I’ll have some sort of psychotic break and-”

“Ian, fuck off, that’s not why, and you know it.”

“Well, I’m going with you.”  Lip stood, and they stared at each other for one charged moment, and then-

“Good. Let’s go.”

                                                                

 Mandy was on her porch hugging her brother- _Mickey_ , Ian remembered, _His name's Mickey_ \- when they got there. Kenyatta was in his car, engine running. Mandy and her brother turned and looked when they heard Lip’s car squeak to a stop (and it did squeak- you’d think an engineer would take better care of his car brakes, Ian thought). “Ian! I tried to call you-” Ian was across the yard in two bounds, grabbing onto Mandy’s shoulders and tugging her away from Mickey.

 “What the fuck are you doing, Mandy?” She shifted uncomfortably and looked out at Lip, who was standing awkwardly by his car, probably trying to avoid Kenyatta.

 “I’m moving to Indiana.”

 “Yeah, no shit, why, though?”

 “Kenyatta has a job there.”

 “So what? You have a job here.”

 “At the diner?”

 “Yeah. And you have friends and,” Ian gestured towards Mickey, looking at him for the first time in probably eight or nine years, “and a family.” Mickey was staring back at Ian, stony-faced. _Well, fuck you too,_ Ian thought passively.

 “I know,” Mandy said quietly, looking at the ground.

“So why are you going?”

 “I-I love him.”

 “No, you don’t. No, _you don’t_. Come on, Mands, you can come and stay at Lip’s with me.”

 “You’re staying at Lip’s?”

 “Yeah, the police think some angry thug is going to try to kill me, that’s not the point-”

  “What?” Mandy and Mickey both ask, sounding shocked and amused, respectively.

 “That’s not important-and it’s on the fucking news anyway, you can get the bullet points later,” Ian grumbled as Kenyatta honked on the car horn.

 “I’m sorry, Ian, I have to go,” Mandy said firmly, picking up the suitcase by her feet and giving him a one-armed hug.

 “But, wait-”

 “Hang on,” Mandy went completely still.

 “What?”

 “You should stay here!” She said, whirling towards Ian.

 “What?” Ian wasn't sure if he said this or Mickey did- probably both.

 “My rooms free, obviously. It’s just Mickey here, now.”

 “Um, thanks, but, it’s really not a big deal. Lip’s place is fine.”

 “No, seriously, Ian. Lip is hardly ever at his apartment anyway, he’s working all the time. At least here you won’t be lonely. I think you and Mick would actually get along really well, I've always said that.” Ian’s head cocked to the side.

“How often do you go to Lip’s?”

“Just tell me you’ll stay here, Ian.”

“Why does it matter?”

“I want you here. It’ll make me happy, knowing you’re keeping my bed warm for me.” Ian took a deep sigh, defeat settling into his bones.

“Fine. I’ll stay here.”  

“Um-” Mickey cleared his throat, “Do I gotta say in this? No offense, firecrotch, but a part of me was really looking forward to walking around in my underwear and watching porn in the kitchen.”

 “Gross, and no,” Mandy replied, “I’m going to Indiana and Ian is staying here.” She walked down the front steps and paused, glancing at Lip before getting in the car. _Don’t do it, Mandy._ They drove away. Ian watched as Lip stomped out his cigarette and walked up to the porch.

 “Couldn't get her to stay, huh?”

 “Obviously not,” Ian replied, moving to walk back to Ian’s car.

“‘Ey! Where you going?” Mickey asked, surprising all three of them. Lip and Ian glanced at each other before Ian replied, “Back to the city, I guess.”

 “Naw, man. You heard the woman. You’re staying here.”


End file.
